Recovering in a dark room

Saturday morning saw the lovely guys down Brass Monkey, Nottingham at 3am. This place wouldn't exist in London; you'd have sneering bouncers, aggressive clientele, wouldn't be free to get in and  would close at 1am rather than the 4am here. There's deckchairs in the upstairs chill lounge.

Later got a staff coach from Birmingham to Cookham, Berks for what I thought would be a routine event but would be life defining. We were on from 11am. The first act were the Specials; how to hit the ground running- A Message To You Rudy et al.
Blancmange had the cleanest production; pure dance beats. A bearded Neil Arthur; looks like Colin Firth. Music is therapy; breakthroughs to a life you knew before or what you could've been. That happened with Don't Tell Me; a vision of the moves. Nik Kershaw; Wouldn't It Be Good- you're working when the songs of your life are being played out.
Clocked off later; saw Marc Almond. The Days of Pearly Spencer; a plaintive ballad. Wave Hello, Say Goodbye- the gamut of emotions. It was probably sung to me but i'm claiming it back. My freakshake brings the girls to the yard. Nutritionally balanced, went for a run. You do journeys you wouldn't have done before.

La Liga; being shown up for the sham that it is. A two team league existing in a bubble; the world and UEFA creaming over Barca but its tactical ass exposed bare by Liverpool- bad losers. Real Madrid doing their dirty, xenophobic laundry in public; Zidane and Bale-lacking all class. Player power here, manager power there. They've not been the same since iconic Ronaldo left for a new challenge.